


Claddagh

by orphan_account



Category: Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 04:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19099411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the massive row that results in the dissolution of their professional and personal relationship, Elton looks for Bernie in order to make amends.





	Claddagh

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fanfiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Because certain aspects of the characters' backgrounds are unknown or not well known, the author has made ample use of conjecture and artistic license.

It took only about an hour of rumination and regret for Elton to book a flight. The ticket cost £800, and that was just to get to London from LA. From there, he would have to take a train to Market Rasen. 

That wouldn’t cost very much, maybe £50-75 or so. If he were being honest with himself - and he was making good progress, he thought, even going so far - he would not hesitate to pay every penny he owned.

_Whoa, every penny? Must be the vodka talking._ He briefly thought about phoning the farmhouse to tell Bernie’s mum he was coming. Then he thought better of it. What bloody good would it do for her to know he was coming? 

None, that’s what. It’d just give Bernie the time to kiss her cheek, pack his bags and go off God knows where. After the way he’d behaved, Elton could hardly blame him.

Him, and that little wife of his. What was her name again? He racked his brain, but came up with nothing. It wasn’t just that his mind was considerably addled - truthfully, he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

The whole concept of matrimony was frankly sickening. Elton frowned and fidgeted with his bow tie. He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t notice he had company until a familiar pair of hands reached round his neck.

“Let me do it,” John said irritably. “You’re hopeless at this stuff.” Elton let his arms drop to his sides. He stood stiffly as John tied the ribbon round his neck, then tucked it under his collar. 

“Honestly, I dunno why you didn’t just use a clip on. Why are you dressed like this, anyway? Your next show’s not until Saturday.”

By ‘this,’ he meant the white polo, black slacks, and suspenders he’d put on, in place of the terry cloth bathrobe that had become like a second skin. Compared to his usual concert wardrobe, his current outfit was nice, but tame. Kind of boring, really.

Elton sighed. “If you must know,” he drawled, “I’m going to see Bernie. My flight leaves in a few hours. I need a ride to the airport.” 

John gripped Elton’s shoulders. “Do you really think that’s wise? So soon after back-to-back concerts at Dodgers’ Stadium...so soon after your little mishap in the swimming pool?”

Elton scowled and shook out of John’s hold. “I find your concern quite touching, if a bit confusing; one might even say hypocritical. My concerts at the Stadium were only two days after my ‘little mishap,’ after all.” 

John smirked and wrapped an arm around him. He patted Elton’s stomach loosely. With the other hand, he unbuttoned his slacks and reached inside, stroking the length of him through his thin cotton briefs.

“John! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Elton yanked John’s hand out of his pants. He whirled around and spit in his face.

“Shit!” John cursed and with the sleeve of his shirt wiped his cheek. 

He stared at Elton coldly, and slapped him across the face. Elton hissed and wordlessly clutched his cheek. John slapped him so hard that the imprint of his hand was left on Elton’s cheek.

“Think of that as a warning. Spitting on me will get you the same thing as putting your hands on me. I’ll put my hands on you. I’ll beat you bloody, so help me God.”

Elton laughed bitterly. “Figures you’d need a little help with that. A little help from your imaginary friend up above.” John responded by punching him in the mouth. 

Elton whimpered and covered his mouth with his hand. His fingers wet, he tasted blood in his mouth. 

“Well,” John murmured. “Is there anything more you’d like to say?”

Elton shook his head, wisely opting not to speak. If he did, he didn’t know what would come out of his mouth. Most likely, he would spit at him again, a great glob of saliva and blood, only to earn another slap or punch. It wouldn’t do to get blood on his perfectly nice white shirt. 

Somewhat absurdly, he felt a small surge of sympathy for John. What kind of childhood must the poor man have had, to make him such a vitriolic cunt? The general repression and austerity typical of growing up working-class in Britain in the 1950's would have been enough to make him angry. 

With the addition of indoctrination into a system of beliefs that laid down inflexible rules, dividing the world into “sheep” and “rams,” one which demonized him for simply being who he was, poor John never had a chance. Deep down, he was just scared and deeply, deeply damaged. He was a good little Presbyterian.

Elton, who had been raised in an overall secular home that was Anglican in name only, considered himself fortunate. His father had often been away. It was his mum who had imparted to him the few crumbs of Christianity that helped shape his worldview. Namely, to treat others the way he wanted to be treated.

With that in mind, he turned and began to walk away. “Where th’ bloddy hell d’ye think ye’re goin’? John demanded. As his anger deepened, so did his brogue. At one time, Elton had found his accent endearing, even appealing. Now, he just sounded like what he was: controlling and barbaric.

“I told you,” Elton said calmly. He kept his hand over his mouth, partly muffling his voice. “I’m going to see Bernie. I’m calling a cab and going to the airport.”

* * *

The flight to London - one of many he’d made in his young life, and one he would make countless times in future - was torturous. He thought that flying first class would have its advantages, but apparently he was either too drunk, or not drunk enough. There were only three other people in his compartment, a man, his wife, and their well-behaved (quiet) young son.

A passenger in another compartment quite close had an infant. Its endless screaming and wailing tore at his nerves. He got some earplugs from one of the stewardesses, but that did little to minimize the racket. 

Elton pressed the plugs into his ears as far as they would go. He didn’t understand how the others in his compartment could be so unperturbed.

When the child’s screeching had lasted 10 minutes, he decided he’d had enough. He pushed a button on his seat to summon the stewardess. She was a pretty young woman in her early 20’s, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and perky, in more ways than one. 

The sort of woman who had clearly been hired based on looks, and not for her wit or intellect. The sort of woman who would stir up all sorts of feelings in any other hot blooded male.

“Hello, sir, how may I help you?” Her teeth were so sparkly and white they were almost blinding. Elton blinked and assumed what he hoped was a friendly, interested expression. 

“Hello, love. I was wondering if you’ve received any complaints about the screaming baby in the next compartment? I mean, pardon me for saying so, but that’s about the worst bloody sound I’ve ever heard.”

The stewardess maintained a simpering, plastic smile. “No, sir, we haven’t received any complaints, but I’ll be sure to pass along yours to the appropriate staff.” 

“See that you do,” Elton groused. He lay back in his seat and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the woman had left. She had evidently told the people to quiet their child, because it wasn’t screaming anymore. In its place was a blessed silence. 

Elton turned to the other passengers to make their acquaintance. They were Mr. James Brooksby, his wife Rebecca, and their 6-year-old son. To be polite, though he couldn’t care less, he asked Mr. Brooksby what he did for a living. 

“I’m a tailor,” he announced importantly. “I’ve got a nice little shop set up in Oxford Street. In fact, I’m just a short walk down from Selfridges.”

“Ah,” Elton said, in what he hoped was a polite tone. “You must get a lot of good business, then. It’s a prime location.” 

“It is!” Brooksby crowed triumphantly. “I serve only high end, well to do clientele.” Elton’s eyes narrowed. High end? Well to do?

“You must be very well off, to be able to rent out an entire compartment for your family and yourself...well, excluding myself, of course.” 

He shifted his gaze to the boy, who sat still and silent as a little statue. His eyes softened and he held out his hand. “Hello there,” he said blithely. “My name’s Elton. What’s yours?”

“Hello,” the boy echoed, accepting the proffered handshake. “My name is Trevor. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” His smile did not quite reach his eyes. 

Elton released his hand and turned to address Brooksby. “Such a nice boy you have,” he said slowly. “And so well mannered.”

“Yes, well, after what I pay for that overrated _daycare,_ he had better be.”

“Daycare?”

“Oh, you know, that boarding school in Moray. The one the Prince of Wales attended.”

“You mean Gordonstoun.”

“Yes, that’s the one!” Brooksby grinned and turned to his wife. She whispered something fervently into his ear. Elton watched as Brooksby gave him the once over. His face reddened, the corners of his lips steadily turning down in a frown as his wife spoke to him.

“Excuse me, but what did you say your name was?”

“Elton.”

“And what line of work are you in?”

“I’m a musician.”

“And what did you say your surname was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s John. Elton John.”

Brooksby’s lips contorted as if he’d sucked a lemon. He took a deep breath, and unbuckled his seatbelt. His wife and son followed suit. The stewardess stopped them briefly on their way out. “Excuse me, sir, what seems to be the problem?”

Mr Brooksby’s tone trembled with rage as he answered. “My family and I shall be moving. I do not want my young, impressionable son to be unduly influenced by this...this **deviant**!” 

He jabbed a finger in Elton’s direction. Elton’s heart fluttered in his chest. He and John had always been discreet; besides Bernie and their former landlady, he had told no one - not even his parents - of his preferred bed partner.

Brooksby blathered on. “I don’t approve of this so-called _‘musician,’_ filling the minds of our children with filth and rebellion. I’ll not stay here another minute, not one second longer!” 

“Fine.” Elton stood in resignation. “If that’s how you feel, I will be the one to go. There are no more first class compartments, and I would hate for you to have to condescend to sit with commoners.” 

As he left, he felt the Brooksbys’ stares boring holes into the back of his head.

* * *

Upon his arrival in London, Elton made a quick stop in a pub for a pint of English ale. After the upsetting scenario on the flight, he felt tempted to order another. Somehow, he kept his resolve, and walked out after one.

For all the nights of hard drinking and partying he and Bernie had, he was reluctant to show up on the Taupins’ doorstep inebriated. Well, more inebriated than he already was. For the past five years or so, he had more or less been in a constant haze.

Bernie would be disappointed, to say the least. If he encountered Bernie’s mum, she would be devastated. He rode by train from London to Market Rasen, the nearest town of size. From there, he hired a cab to take him the remaining 7 ½ miles to Maltkiln Farm.

Bernie’s mum answered the door when he knocked. She opened the door slightly and peered out at him. “Yes?” Her tone was polite, but brisk and to the point.

Elton cleared his throat and sucked in his stomach. He was rather thin to begin with, but his affinity for spirits had made him gain a few kilograms since their last meeting. “Hello Mam-Mrs. Taupin. Is Bernie around?”

He had started to call her _‘Maman,’ _but caught himself. That was what Bernie called her. Born in Switzerland in the 1920’s, she had come to England in the 40’s for work. She’d met Bernie’s father, an English farmer of French extraction. The rest, as they say, was history.__

Elton stood awkwardly as Mrs. Taupin stared at him. “No,” she answered finally. “I am sorry, but Bernard is not here.” Elton expelled all the air in his lungs. He bit his lip and balled his hands into fists at his side. 

“Do you know...when he’ll be back?” He hated the tremor in his voice. It took all his willpower not to break down in tears. 

The next thing he knew, Mrs. Taupin had opened the door and wrapped her arms around him. “Elton, _mon bijou, _it’s you!” She kissed his cheek. “Come inside, won’t you. I’ll get you some tea.”__

____

__

“No thanks, Mrs. Taupin. I should get going.” 

“Nonsense! You don’t have to have the tea, but I insist you come inside. We have a bit of catching up to do. And please, dear, call me _‘Maman.’_ Mrs. Taupin was my mother-in-law, God rest her soul.” 

“Alright.” Elton let her drag him by the arm into the house and shut the door. The door opened up to the small kitchen. 

It was just as he remembered it the first time he visited nearly six years ago. The plain oak table and four chairs, the cupboard, the counter, and the oven. He sat uncertainly at the table and watched as Mrs. Taupin - Maman - made herself a cup of tea. 

She reached in the cupboard and took out a small box. She set it on the countertop, and set a pot to boil on the stove. She tore open a packet of instant tea, and poured its contents into the pot. 

“I just love this instant tea Bernard brought from the States. It tastes surprisingly good, considering.” She poured some of the boiling water into a mug and added a little cream, sugar, and milk. She held the steaming mug in both hands and sat down beside Elton. 

___She took a sip and practically purred with delight. It was a sound Elton had only ever heard in a decidedly more coital context. He tittered nervously and tapped his fingers on the tabletop._ _ _

“So,” Maman said after taking a few more sips. “Let me tell you what Bernard’s been up to.” She spoke with a posh, cultured accent. Elton loved the way she pronounced their names. She stressed the second syllable in his name, and silenced the ‘d’ in her son’s name. El-TUN. Behr-NAR. 

___“He and his wife had a bit of a quarrel. He left her in the States. He has gone to Ireland.”_ _ _

___“Ireland?”_ _ _

___“Yes, to Galway on the west coast. He never mentioned it to you?”_ _ _

___“No, but he hasn’t mentioned anything in particular to me lately.”_ _ _

___“Oh dear,” she lamented. She patted his hand gently. “Are you and Bernard on the outs?”_ _ _

___“Sort of. It’s my fault, really. I’ve kind of let the fame and all that go to my head. It never seems to affect Bernie. At least, not the way it has me.”_ _ _

___“That’s too bad, _mon cher._ But, since you have come all this way to see him, I suppose you will want to follow him to Ireland. Am I correct?”_ _ _

___“Yes, mum. Maman. I need to see him, need to let him know how sorry I am. Thank you for letting me in. Thank you for telling me where he is.” He stood up, and it was then that his hands began to shake._ _ _

___Damn, he was starting to have withdrawal. He clasped his hands together and smiled stiffly. “I better get going. I’ve kept the cab waiting long enough. The driver’s a good bloke, but I doubt he’ll stick around forever.”_ _ _

___Maman pulled him in for another embrace. She kissed his other cheek and sent him on his way._ _ _

* * *

___18 hours later, Elton knocked on the door of the room at the hotel Bernie was supposedly staying in. The trip to Ireland had taken a long car ride, a ferry across the Irish Sea, then another excruciatingly long ride to Galway. He lessened the worst of his withdrawal symptoms by stopping at a few pubs and drinking along the way._ _ _

___When he got to Ireland, the drinks seemed to taste better. Since he generally slept through the car rides and missed taking in the ethereal beauty of the Irish landscape, Elton showed his appreciation for the country by engaging in the national pastime._ _ _

___Maybe it was the money, maybe it was his fame, but Elton was greatly loved in the pubs. The patrons of O’Meara’s in Tullamore had especially enjoyed his drunken rendition of Bing Crosby’s “Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder.”_ _ _

___When no one answered, Elton’s heart sank. Once in Galway, he had checked nearly a dozen luxury hotels within the city proper. By chance (and a small bribe paid to the clerk at the front desk) he discovered Bernie was staying at the Park House Hotel in the city center._ _ _

___He’d spent hours in his mind rehearsing what he was going to say, and now he’d have to wait even longer to say it. He felt defeated._ _ _

___He sighed and banged on the door once more. He turned and headed for the lift. Since he’d come all this way, he certainly wasn’t going to fly back to LA in defeat. Not just yet._ _ _

___Sooner or later, Bernie would return. In the meantime, Elton would rent a room and get some much needed rest. He pushed the button for the lift, but before it arrived, the door opened. “Elton?”_ _ _

___He slowly turned. There was Bernie, looking as calm and perfectly put together as the last time he’d seen him. He was even wearing the same outfit, t-shirt, jeans and blazer. For one brief moment, Elton thought he was either dreaming, or had somehow traveled back in time._ _ _

___The illusion was shattered when Bernie spoke. “It’s you! Elton, what the bloody hell are you doing here? How did you find me?” Elton staggered and held a hand to the wall to steady himself._ _ _

___“Long story, mate. I’d love to tell you, but if it’s not too much trouble, can I come inside first? I’d hate to fall flat on my face out here and put you in a tough spot.”_ _ _

___Bernie stepped back. As Elton began to collapse, he caught him by the arms. Slowly, he pulled Elton into the room and closed the door. He guided him to the bed, and eased him down on the edge of it._ _ _

___Elton dropped back like a sack of bricks. His head didn’t quite reach the pillow. He turned on his side and curled up, holding his forehead. “It’s terrible, Bernie, just terrible…”_ _ _

___“I know,” Bernie said. “Well, now that I think of it, I guess I don’t know. I’ve had hangovers aplenty, but I can only imagine how painful it is to have one, on top of going coming off the coke, as well.”_ _ _

___“Hurts,” Elton whined pitifully. “It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.”_ _ _

___“Oh come on. Don’t be so dramatic.” Bernie sat down on the edge of the bed. He patted Elton’s knee sympathetically. “You’ll be alright. Hey, I actually have something that might help. Wait a minute.”_ _ _

___He got up and rummaged through his suitcase. He quickly found what he was looking for. “Here you go,” he said as he sat down on the bed. He was so close, Elton inched away from him to give him more room. “What is it?”_ _ _

___“Sit up and take a look.” Elton slowly sat up. He picked the pillow up and placed it over his crossed legs. Bernie held out a small green velvet box. “Er, thanks.” He took the lid off the box and found a small ring._ _ _

___It was beautiful, sterling silver with a heart at its center. The band was formed in the shape of two small hands supporting the heart. The heart was topped with a small silver crown._ _ _

___“Thank you, Bernie...I think. What exactly are you trying to tell me?”_ _ _

___Bernie laughed. “It’s not what you think. Give it to me and I’ll show you.” He took the ring and touched the crown with two fingers. He turned it round, and detached it from the heart._ _ _

___“This is a Claddagh ring,” he explained drolly. “It’s something of a symbol of Galway. It can be used as a wedding or engagement ring, or just a friendship ring. This here is a special ring, as you can see.”  
___

_____ _

_____ _

___“Why?” Elton asked curiously. He couldn’t lie, the ring itself was gorgeous. Green was among his favorite colors, and he preferred silver to gold. It was a touching gift, and a bit baffling.”_ _ _

___“I’ll show you. Come with me.” On trembling feet, Elton followed Bernie into the bathroom. He sat on the loo and watched as Bernie held the ring up and a small clump of white powder fell onto the countertop._ _ _

___He reached into his back pocket for his notecase and pulled out a red bill. “This is £20 Irish, in case you’re interested. The woman on the front’s an American who married some Irish bloke. She died a long time before either of us were born.”_ _ _

___“That’s all very fascinating, Bernie, really.” Elton pinched the bridge of his nose and yawned. He held out his hand expectantly. “Now, if you would be so kind.”_ _ _

___Bernie rolled the bill up. He handed it to Elton and stepped aside. “Just so you know,” he said firmly. “I’m still not writing for you anymore.”_ _ _

___Elton snorted the powder and turned to face him. “Come again?” he glowered at Bernie furiously, like a child deprived of his favorite toy. “You’re still cross with me? After I’ve come all this way to find you?”_ _ _

___Bernie frowned and crossed his arms. “I never asked you to do that. I actually came here to get away from you.”_ _ _

___“That’s not the story I heard. When I went to the farmhouse to see if you were there, your mum told me you came here because you had a tiff with your old lady.”_ _ _

___Elton gasped in surprise when Bernie grabbed hold of his collar and spun him around. He leaned toward him until their noses touched. Bernie’s breath smelt of fish and vodka, a nauseating mixture._ _ _

___“I’ll thank you not to mention my wife. Elton, in spite of any differences of opinion we may have, you’re still my best mate. Please don’t bring her up again.”_ _ _

___Elton nodded and pressed their foreheads together. “Alright Bernie, I won’t. I’m sorry.”_ _ _

___Bernie wrapped his arms around him. “I know you are. Thank you. I’m still not going back with you.”_ _ _

___Elton nodded and backed away sheepishly. “I know,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t either, if I were you.” He turned and began to walk away._ _ _

___“Wait!” Bernie called after him. “Where are you going?” A corner of Elton’s mouth turned up in a half smile. “I’m going home. I know when I’m not wanted.”_ _ _

___Bernie scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Typical Elton, prim and peevish as ever. Look at you, you’ve been awake for God knows how many days. You’ve been going nonstop. As your friend, I advise you to at least rent a room for the night. You can take a flight out of Galway straight to LA tomorrow. I’ll buy your ticket.”_ _ _

___“You’re right, I _am_ awfully tired. Or I will be, in about 10 minutes. As soon as this high wears off. About the ticket, you needn’t pay for it. It’s chump change to me, really.”_ _ _

___“Oh come now, Elton, be reasonable. It’s like you said, you did come all this way just for me. Besides, I’m the one with the Irish currency.”_ _ _

___“Right then,” Elton agreed, yawning. “I suppose this is good night, then. Good night, and goodbye.”_ _ _

___“Good night, yes. I’ll say goodbye when I see you off at the airport tomorrow. Well, maybe ‘goodbye’ isn’t the proper phrase. More like, ‘see you later.’ ”_ _ _

___Elton’s face brightened. He sniffled and swiped his shirtsleeve over his eyes. “You really mean that?”_ _ _

___“I do. Like I said before, you’re my best mate, Elton. No, more than that. You’re my brother. Good night. I love you.”_ _ _

___“Good night, Bernie. I love you, too.”_ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, I'm quite new to this whole "fanfiction" thing. Well, not quite new. I've been reading it for many years, but never had the nerve to write and publish my own until now. This work is set in the nebulous, somewhat fantastical, wonderful film depicting the early years of a musical legend.
> 
> At the risk of sounding heretical, I am admittedly not much of an Elton John fan. However, he was my mother's first concert, and since has been her favorite musician. His songs were frequently the soundtrack of my childhood. I saw the film on opening day, and was blown away.
> 
> I didn't anticipate it impacting me as it did, much less sitting down and typing up a short story based off of it. I think of it as a sort of 'what if' or unused scenes that would have been touching in an already moving film.


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